<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>guinevere, circe, juliet by CorvidFeathers</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555136">guinevere, circe, juliet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers'>CorvidFeathers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Artist/Muse Dynamics, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pre-Raphaelite AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:41:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bet that brings John Franklin's latest muse to Miss Crozier's studio.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fall Fitzier Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>guinevere, circe, juliet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/horriblesupper/gifts">horriblesupper</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I hope you like it!<br/>&lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>i.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a bet that brought John Franklin’s latest muse to Frances’s studio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Franklin’s circle had been overtaken with fascination for the girl.  There was some fantastic story of how she had come to his attention, some meeting of the Fates when Franklin was off drinking in the inspiration of Italy, or Greece, or China.  It was the talk of innumerable salons and showcases, and Frances had stoutly refused to learn the specifics.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An English jewel plucked from a faraway land</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Franklin would say, his eyes sliding to Frances, as if he couldn’t help himself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guinevere, Circe, Juliet.  The Brotherhood had fallen over themselves immortalizing her with layer after layer of jewel-toned glosses, pinning her down into two dozens legends, during the scant hours Franklin could spare her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Franklin, with his usual magnanimity doling out the time of others, had proposed a bet; each of his circle would have a turn to painting his newest muse.  At the end of the process, they would gather all the paintings together to judge who really, truly could make the best use of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So now the girl- </span>
  <em>
    <span>woman, really, she’s far beyond a debutante</span>
  </em>
  <span>- stands in Frances’ dingy studio, eyeing the sun-speckled clutter of half-finished canvases and bottles with one elegant brow raised.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fitzjames, that’s her name.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>James</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the Brotherhood have taken to calling her, for her straight, boyish features and dark eyes that so captivate them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had fostered the hope that a woman’s studio might be more presentable,” she says, with a little laugh, her head swivelling to Frances as she paces the length of the space.  “I should have known otherwise.  In this manner all artists are united in spirit.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another thing the others praise her for.  Her </span>
  <em>
    <span>sparkling</span>
  </em>
  <span> wit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances can feel those dark eyes boring into her, waiting for something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How Franklin can stand to be so stared at, she cannot fathom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will you make me?” Fitzjames says, arranging herself carefully on a chair.  Her eyes flicker to the mirror resting against the far well, and then back to Frances.  “An Andromeda?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gore already painted you as Andromeda,” Frances snaps, fussing with her palette.  “I’m not derivative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The background sketched onto the canvas is dismal and uninspired, much like the afternoon Frances had spent blocking it out.  The structure of a castle wall and a stormy sky beyond.  Truth be told, she had little expectation of ‘James’ actually showing, and didn’t want to put too much effort into something that would be handed off to Jopson to help him practice his figures, like as not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An Iphigenia, then,” Fitzjames says, plucking a paintbrush from the table and holding it up to her breast like a dagger. “Offered up and consumed.”  Her lips quirk into a little smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doomed women are Franklin’s domain,” Frances says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Viola?  Come, Frances, there must be something I can be to stir your artistic spirit.” Fitzjames’ smile is wide, but Frances cannot mistake the edge of derision there.   “Or at least please you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quiet.  Quiet would please me.” Frances says.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some artists let their models chatter and flit about like birds; some artists let themselves become quite distracted.  But that was the license men like Franklin were allowed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That strips the smile from Fitzjames’s face.  She has the gall to look wounded for a moment, before shrugging.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Franklin must have told her what to expect.  Miss Crozier, the bitter, used-up old spinster.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bitter, used-up old spinster would like nothing better to send Fitzjames away, draw the curtains on the wan autumn sun, have a drink, and think of her no further.  But </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> is already here, filling the little studio with the scent of rosewater and ambergris, and looking quite implacable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances cannot let the others sneer of a project unfinished.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let her think me sour.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Franklin’s precious Cordelia could stand a few hours of silence.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Frances next looks up, Fitzjames has shed her clothes, and is standing naked in the center of the studio.  The studio is cold; for all of Jopson’s best efforts, there’s simply not the money to keep the drafty old brickwork rooms at a comfortable temperature, but Fitzjames stands firm, not showing the slightest shiver.  She lifts her chin, and folds her arms.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s an unspoken challenge shining in her eyes, one far more tantalizing than the Brotherhood’s appeals to artistic pride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lean against the wall,” Frances forces herself to say, after a moment.  The words come out harsh, but she can find nothing to soften them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picks up the pencil and starts to sketch, laying out the lines of Fitzjames’ body in unsteady strokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sooner Frances put this farce to bed, the better, and damn Franklin for talking her into it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>ii.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The gallery drifts around Francis, the voices of the crowd rising and falling in an incessant, cacophonous drone.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At its centerpiece hangs Franklin’s latest masterpiece.  Iphigenia, standing at the prow of a ship, with a knife held against her throat.  Her head is tipped backwards, eye cast skyward.  Behind her, the brilliant blue of the Grecian sea is a stark contrast to the dark waves of her hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fawning terror on her features grates Frances’ nerves.  It’s heavy-handed, wrong; the expression sits poorly on Fitzjames’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The image of James standing naked, chin upraised, eyes defiant rises to her mind unbidden.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd shifts, and she catches a glimpse of James, the real James, underneath the painting.  She’s wearing a dark, elegant dress in a shade of green.  She looks strangely small, beneath the luminous canvas; the sacrifice stares out with wide, fragile eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James looks up, and their eyes meet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances can just </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>the lilt of Fitzjames’ voice as she leans in close to Franklin, the words just inaudible.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...really used to model for Mr. Craycroft?... </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Something indescribable and ugly crawls up into her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>iii.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When James finally appears, the sun is sinking behind the skyline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She strides into the studio with her usual, deliberate grace, but there’s something strange about the way she’s breathing.  Frances stares at her for a moment before realizing she’s out of breath, as if she sprinted all the way to the studio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And her hair is wet, despite the dry fall day.  It hangs loose, clinging to her forehead and cheeks in damp waves.  There’s a wet rose petal clinging to her hair, a point of crimson against the umber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Frances,” she says.  “Franklin had me in the bathtub all afternoon again, for his Ophelia, and he wouldn’t let me out until he got my hair right.”  She shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He had you in there for </span>
  <em>
    <span>how long</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Frances asks, aghast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James shrugs in her easy, elegant way, and gives the smile that drew so many in.  “He had to get it right,” she says, her hands going to the fastening of her dress. “It’s that dedication that has brought him such acclaim.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s routine now, this casual undressing, as much as it would be with any other model.  But other models don’t make this flushed, foolish feeling beat through Frances’s blood.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James’ exposed skin shimmers in the wan sunlight, still holding a sheen of dewiness.  A few more drowned rose petals shake loose from her legs as she steps from her skirts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances frowns, trying to focus on her irritation with Franklin instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One would think he would honor the terms of his own bet,” she grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James glances up, catching Frances’s eyes from under those long lashes.  “Is that jealousy, Frances?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>iv.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next week, James doesn’t arrive.  Their appointed hour comes and goes, with nothing to mark it but the ever-quickening approach of sunset and the whiskey in Frances’ glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sets aside the painting and resolves to use the time to do some studies.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James’s absence is no matter, she tells herself.  The emotion prickling at the back is irritation, nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Digging through her studio produces a half-withered bouquet of roses and an assortment of vases Craycroft gave her at one point or another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tableau arranged, she tries to sketch it in charcoal, but her mind keeps drifting back to the tangle of James’ legs, the curve of her neck, the imperious tilt of her head.  The stem of the rose distorts, the folds and petals of the dying blooms tangling together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lines smudge under her fingers, and meshing and melting together, until she has painted the figure from her mind, neck arched back, lips parted.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Andromeda</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>chained to the rock</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, it’s only James.  James, crimson blooming in her lips and cheeks, hair hanging loose over her face-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She burns the sketches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>v.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James coughs as she begins to undress, hacking shudders that leave her frame shaking for a moment.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances opens her mouth to say something, to dismiss her for God’s sake, but James waves a hand and gives her a bright-eyed smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” she says.  “A chill.  I will not cheat you of any more time, Frances.  I’m a woman of honor.”  The words are said with a little sneer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sheds her coat and pulls the layers of silk beneath from her skin with a practiced ease that tugs at something buried deep in Frances’ bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something long since mourned and left for dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unmourned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances swallows and fixes her eyes on her pallet, forcing herself through the mechanical preparations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once begun, it’s not hard to get lost in the colors; the rhythmic mixing, the scrape of the palette knife, the heady bite of linseed oil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your color work is remarkable,” James’s voice cuts through the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances’ head snaps up, but the familiar sting of irritation fades at the fascination on James’s face.  The admiration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James has wrapped herself tightly in the robe, and sits on the edge of the pedestal, watching.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you paint?” Frances finally finds the words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James waves a hand.  “Who doesn’t dabble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lets the robe fall with a practiced flourish, and steps up onto the pedestal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the sunset light of the studio, every line of her ribs shows stark.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sight of her twists something sickening in Frances.  There’s nothing beautiful in the wasted flesh.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”  Frances lowers her brush, and sets aside her palette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James blinks.  “No?”  Panic flares across her face, her too-bright eyes going from Frances’ face to her hands and back again.  “Frances, if I’m not-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Frances snaps.  “You’re not going to shiver away an hour with me in this drafty place. You’re going to go home, and get some rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James blinks again, but the words fail to shore up the crumbling remnants of her dignity; if anything, she falls apart more.  “Frances-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Franklin can do whatever he pleases at his studio, but I think he goes too far.  And I will not let that kind of reckless lack of care stand here.”  Lord knows she let enough things stand; Mr. Craycroft, for one.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of the words come out right.  The lines of James’s body crumple, and she curls up at the edge of the pedestal, her arms wrapped around herself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay here,” Frances blurts, without reason.  She’s no nurse; there’s precious little in her that is any good at nurturing.  But the thought of James struggling back through the streets, to whatever little garret she calls her own, and rising tomorrow to freeze herself for Franklin’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>art</span>
  </em>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>vi.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Frances doesn't win the bet.</span>
</p><p>In the end, it's Bridgens' painting that has the place of honor in the show; a Guinevere in her garden.  Frances can even say she likes it.  Better than Franklin's Ophelia; the sight of James cold and lifeless under the water makes her chest hurt, even with James on the mend.</p><p>There wasn't as much time to paint, once James fell ill, but she insisted Frances finish the work.</p><p>It takes Frances a few moments to find the canvas, hung in a corner with some of the other less favored works.  James' face stairs down at her, a rose cupped in her hands, her lips upturned in a little, defiant smile.</p><p>Isolde of Ireland, she was calling the work. </p><p><em>A particularly peevish-looking Isolde</em>, one critic had said, uncharitably. <em> It hardly does justice to the inspiration.</em></p><p>On this, Frances couldn't agree.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>vii.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t move,” James’ voice drifts from the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances shifts to glance over her shoulder, but catches only a glimpse of a bare shoulder and the dark tumble of hair before James admonishes her.  “I said, don’t move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frances smiles, and looks back out the window.  “James,” she says, listening to the shush-shush of charcoal on paper.  “Shall I pose for you?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just hold still.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>